


I Wasn't Supposed to Hurt You

by SaraDobieBauer



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Armie Hammer - Freeform, Barebacking, Blood, Blood Kink, Call me by your name, Charmie, DARK!!!!!, Dark, Did I Mention Violence?, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gay For You, M/M, Rough Sex, Serial Killer, Timothee Chalamet - Freeform, Violence, dark!Armie, hopefully alternate universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-28 14:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20427629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraDobieBauer/pseuds/SaraDobieBauer
Summary: Years after CMBYN, Tim and Armie are still best friends ... but Armie has a dark secret. When Tim arrives early at Armie's condo in LA, that secret is revealed with violent consequences.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno where this came from, but it's DARK.
> 
> No major character death, though, and it does have a sorta creepy HEA. 
> 
> Did I mention DARK? And violent. There's definite violence between Armie and Tim, okay??
> 
> You've been warned, so don't yell at me!

In the privacy of his bathroom, Armie placed the driver’s license in his box of precious items. He hadn’t even bothered to clean the bit of blood off the corner, smeared artfully across the image of his latest victim’s face. Armie liked little reminders of the carnage he caused, which was why he always kept trophies from the people he killed: drivers licenses, jewelry, even locks of hair. He’d read enough about serial killers to know this was nothing new, nothing original. It just meant he had a lot in common with his other bloodthirsty brothers and sisters. 

Of course, there was one difference: Armie had never been caught. No one had ever _suspected_, not even Elizabeth, his ex-wife. Armie was just that good, an artist at his craft. He entertained the dark side of himself with strangers to keep the people he loved safe, including Elizabeth. Their divorce four years earlier had been amicable, easy. Since they both lived in Los Angeles, it was easy to share time with the kids, who were growing old enough to understand that it was okay that Mommy was dating someone else and that Daddy lived across town in a condominium by himself where he could entertain his … urges. In fact, divorce made it much easier for Armie to kill. His private life was completely private while he maintained his shining Hollywood façade and important friendships.

Like Tim, for instance. His plane was due to arrive in LA any minute, and he would be staying at Armie’s like he always did when he was in town for filming or an award show or a photo shoot, et cetera. Tim was always busy. Over the years, his success had not dwindled, and their friendship had miraculously remained intact. That was all they were, too, no matter what the “shippers” said.

Armie and Tim had always just been friends—close friends but only friends, no matter how much Armie sometimes wanted to kiss the guy. No matter how many times Armie had gotten off in the shower thinking about Tim. Just friends; nothing more. But great friends, even if Armie did keep a little secret from his good buddy. 

The whole brutal serial killer thing.

Armie ran his fingertip once more across the face on the driver’s license. His victim was still on the news as a “missing person.” He’d been a lovely kill—pretty, like Tim—his body dumped in a desert ditch after Armie’s long, thin Italian stiletto had done its job. Armie wasn’t a messy murderer. He liked the struggle and fear of his victims, but he never cut them to pieces or anything. Just a quick stab up between the ribs and into the heart. No muss, no fuss.

He startled when his cell phone pinged on the bathroom sink the same second someone knocked on his front door.

Armie glanced down to see a text from Tim: “Surprise!”

He snickered. Of course the little bastard would lie about his arrival time and show up unannounced. It was so very Tim. Quickly, Armie put his box of trinkets behind the secret tile in his bathroom and hurried to answer the door.

He walked through his simple living room and foyer. The fancy aspects of his life had always been due to Elizabeth, so he now lived a simple existence in a simple condo where the monthly rent did not cost the price of a new car. Armie opened the door swiftly and grinned.

Even though Tim was almost thirty, he still looked about twelve, especially in a jacket, black skinny jeans, and a black tee with his always shaggy hair shoved under a hat. It was his version of a disguise, he said, although he wasn’t fooling anyone. Everyone recognized Timothee Chalamet by then. Everyone.

“Surprise!” he said and tossed his duffle bag into Armie’s foyer before giving Armie a hug so big, his hat fell off.

Armie squeezed the skinny kid (he would always be a kid to Armie) in his arms while Tim’s curls tickled his face. By then, it was a completely familiar sensation.

Tim pulled back and ruffled Armie’s hair before lugging his bag farther into the house as Armie shut the door behind him. “I know you said you were going to come pick me up, but this is more fun. Please tell me you have beer.” Tim spun around, his tongue pressed into his cheek. “That was the longest flight, and I swear we almost crashed twice.”

Armie chuckled. No matter how much Tim had traveled over the years, he still hated flying. 

Tim tugged at a thin gold chain around his neck and watched Armie, smiling. Armie had started Tim’s jewelry fascination several years earlier when he’d gifted the kid a tiny gold bracelet that had belonged to one of Armie’s victims. Armie knew it was sick, but he’d gotten a thrill every time Tim had worn it.

“Of course I have beer.” Armie squeezed Tim’s shoulder on his way to the kitchen. “I also have whiskey. What’s your preference?”

“Beer,” Tim said, following close behind. “I haven’t eaten in a million years, and I don’t want to be too drunk to go out tonight. We’re going out tonight, right?”

“Did you have caffeine on the plane?” Armie asked.

“Maybe,” Tim sing-songed. “I gotta piss. Be right back.”

“Put the seat down when you’re done!”

“Blah-blah,” Tim muttered before disappearing down the hall.

Armie busied himself opening two bottles of beer while the sound of Tim peeing echoed down the hall because of course Tim never shut the door when he peed at Armie’s place. They might have been only friends, but their level of comfort with each other was ridiculous and sometimes even gross.

Armie set the two beers on the coffee table in his living room and rested back onto the couch while he waited for Tim.

Tim, who really must have had to pee because he was taking for damn ever.

Armie sighed—and froze when he heard the unmistakable sound of scraping porcelain. He held his breath.

He wouldn’t have …

He couldn’t have … 

He’d put his secret tile back in place, hadn’t he? Tim’s surprise arrival couldn’t have thrown him _that_ off-kilter. Armie had gotten away with murdering random people for over a decade. He didn’t make mistakes. Armie Hammer never made mistakes. 

Except Tim had always thrown him off-kilter. Tim, with his annoying laugh and alarmingly good looks. Tim with his charisma and kindness. His accidental sensuality. 

Armie stood silently and tip-toed down the hall to where the bathroom door stood open just enough for Armie to see Tim’s face in the mirror, mouth hanging open and brows drawn together as he stared at a bloody driver’s license.

Armie must have left his secret tile crooked. Tim must have moved to straighten it and noticed the mysterious box behind. Tim must have opened the box. Yes, there it sat on the corner of the sink, while Tim held that license in his delicate fingers.

Tim would know the dead man’s name and face, recognize them from the news and all the missing person reports. He’d probably seen the alerts while scrolling through social media, even at the Los Angeles airport. 

Immediately, Armie went into survival mode. A serial killer did not remain hidden by thinking of others. No, his sort were selfish, striving to fill their own needs first, which was why murder was so easy—that _me first_ mentality.

Unfortunately, the bathroom door creaked as Armie pressed it open.

Tim jumped and spun. The bloody license fell with a quiet_ tap_ on the floor between them. In the ominous silence, Tim’s shaking breath could have been a scream. 

Armie stared at him coldly: his best friend, the gentlest person Armie knew. For the first time in their years of friendship, Tim’s wide green eyes stared up at Armie in fear, which was when Armie knew he was fucked. Doubly fucked when Tim kicked him in the side of the knee and sprinted past. Armie was only knocked off balance for a second before he pursued. He managed to latch onto the back of Tim’s jacket, but Tim wiggled out of it immediately and kept running.

When Armie grabbed onto Tim’s t-shirt and tried putting him into a headlock, Tim’s elbow swept back and caught Armie right in the chin. Tim had done so many action films by then, fight moves were apparently no longer for the camera’s benefit but for real.

Armie had no choice but to swing. His fist caught Tim in the mouth and sent Tim sprawling stomach-first onto the hardwood floors.

“Shit,” Armie muttered, out of breath. 

Tim kept moving, crawling forward, so Armie tackled him and wrapped his forearm around the font of Tim’s throat, which was when Tim sobbed.

“Please, don’t, Armie, please.” His hands clawed at Armie’s grip. His shoes slid and squeaked across the floor beneath him, but Armie had always been so much bigger, stronger.

He tightened his arm around Tim’s throat and squeezed. Armie usually loved this part: the part where his victim fought back and struggled. Not this time. This time, he wanted to be sick.

Tim choked once before twisting his body enough to get a breath of air. He sucked a wheezing breath and begged some more. “Armie, please!”

He felt like a little bird in Armie’s arms. So fucking breakable.

Armie cut off Tim’s air supply while Tim continued to claw at him, kicking and twisting, but he wouldn’t escape. Couldn’t escape. When Tim’s movements became groggy, slow, Armie knew he was close to passing out. He just had to hold on a little longer.

Finally, Tim went limp in his arms. Armie set him gently on the floor, rolled him onto his back … and recoiled. There was blood all over Tim’s chin from where Armie’s punch had busted his lip. His cheeks were wet with tears, and although unconscious, he was still alive.

Armie stood and backed away with his hands over his mouth. “Oh, fuck. No,” he said. He ran a shaking hand through his hair. “No. God.”

He had never wanted to hurt Tim—never. Sure, there had been occasional fantasies of tying Tim to a bed, maybe hurting him _a little_. Not like this, though. Now, Armie would have to kill the person he loved most.

But not yet.

Armie was a man calm under pressure. He knew Tim wouldn’t be out long, so he had to do something to just keep him still while Armie decided what to do. He easily lifted Tim’s limp body from the floor and carried him to his bed.

He grabbed the handcuffs first, looping them through the metal headboard before snapping them around each of Tim’s slim wrists. Duct tape was next obviously. He tore off a piece and covered Tim’s bleeding mouth. Then, he stood there and stared, horrified to see Tim bound like this.

And it was supposed to be such a relaxing weekend. 

Armie wasn’t sure how long he stood there, staring at the beautiful man he had always protected from his darker tendencies. Tim, in fact, fed into Armie’s good side. Armie never felt the need to kill when Tim was around, and yet, here they were with Tim about to become Armie’s next victim because what other choice did he have?

Armie’s breath caught in his throat when Tim’s eyelids twitched. His fingers curled up near the headboard, trapped by metal. Tim turned his head to the right before his forehead furrowed and he slowly, slowly opened his eyes.

He noticed Armie looming over him instantly and tried to roll away before looking up at the sound of rattling metal to see he was trapped. Then, Tim screamed behind the duct tape.

Armie moved closer. “Tim, shh, wait.”

With Armie’s nearness, Tim went into full panic. He tugged viciously at the handcuffs and tried kicking at Armie with his legs. Screams muffled by the tape, his eyes overflowed with tears of both fear and rage.

“Tim, stop.” Armie straddled his hips and reached for Tim’s hands to calm him, but the handcuffs had already sliced into skin. Bits of red dripped onto the pillowcase above Tim’s head. “Shit.”

Armie jumped from the bed and hurried to the bathroom where he kept a supply of heavy sedatives for occasional use on his victims. He grabbed a clean needle and loaded it up before rushing back to Tim, whose panicked fighting and muffled screams only increased at the sight of the syringe.

Armie thought he heard his own name as he shoved the needle into the side of Tim’s neck and pushed the plunger. Tim’s entire chest heaved on sobs, and his eyes never left Armie’s face, silently begging, begging.

Ten seconds later, Tim’s eyes closed. He went limp and silent.

Armie dropped the needle and crumpled to the floor. Frankly, he felt like crying, too, but there was no time for weakness. Again, Tim would only be unconscious for so long.

Armie shoved to standing and first removed the handcuffs. “Jesus, Tim.” His friend had done a good job of destroying his own flesh. Bloody half-rings circled the insides of his wrists. Armie kissed each palm in turn. “I’m so sorry.”

He cleaned and bandaged both injuries before reaching under the bed for his box of rope. He found the softest set he owned and set about tying Tim’s hands to the headboard using intricate knots that would not injure even if Tim tried ripping his arms off at the elbow.

Then, the stupid duct tape. Armie was careful pulling that off, but of course, he was already too late. He knew Tim’s skin was sensitive. He half laughed, half sobbed at the memory of whisker burn back in Crema. That seemed like another life now, especially since Armie had never expected to have to hurt Tim, have to kill him.

He rubbed his thumb over Tim’s bloody, busted bottom lip before bringing a wet towel from the bathroom and cleaning his face. Then, Armie backed away from the bed slowly.

He knew what he had to do. He didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t let Tim go, not knowing what Armie was, what he had done. Tim had no poker face, and he was a good man. It would all be over for Armie, all of it: the kids, the career … Tim.

_I think I fall more and more in love with Timmy every time I see him._

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Sometimes, Armie liked to pretend it might end with them married. They’d never been lovers, but they could have been, some time down the line once both their careers had calmed some. Armie wouldn’t have minded waking up to Timmy’s goofy grin every morning.

Tim, he meant.

Tim hadn’t been “Timmy” in years.

Instead, here they were with Tim shackled to Armie’s headboard while Armie went for his special box in the closet where he kept his stiletto. He returned to the bedroom, pulled a chair to the side of the bed, and waited. 

This time when Tim woke, he gasped for breath and tried surging upward before noticing his bandaged wrists, now encased in soft, strong rope. His tongue poked at his broken lip before his eyes darted around and landed on Armie.

The earlier anger was gone, replaced with nothing but terror. “Armie, I won’t tell anyone.” He hiccuped around every word. “P-please, can we just talk?” He sniffled between each breath, not even trying to fight his bonds.

Armie turned the knife over in his hands, which Tim apparently hadn’t noticed until that moment as he sobbed in earnest. “I can’t take the chance, Tim.”

“No, I won’t …” He had trouble talking through his tears. “Let’s just pretend this never happened. It never—”

Armie stood, looming above the kid who, years ago, had wheedled his way forever into Armie’s black heart. “You’ll be unconscious when it happens. You won’t even know.” He reached for the bottle of sedatives on the nightstand and a new needle before straddling Tim’s hips. 

Tim shook his head violently. “I love you, Armie, please.” He whimpered. “I love you. Don’t you love me, too? You can’t do this, please!”

Tim continued to beg as Armie prepped the needle. With the calm he always reserved for killing, Armie pressed the syringe into Tim’s neck and pushed. A bit of Tim’s red, red blood danced in the needle’s hub before disappearing with the clear liquid into Tim’s body.

“I love you,” Tim whispered before he went under.

Armie calmly set the needle on the bedside table and reached for his stiletto. He pushed Tim’s thin black t-shirt up his abdomen, revealing pale skin and toned muscle. Armie ran his hand over Tim’s warm flesh before leaning down to kiss the base of his ribs.

It was a simple way to kill, one upward stab that caused little to no mess. It was simple. It was supposed to be simple.

Armie rubbed his nose on Tim’s stomach and realized, not for the first time, that his tiny belly from their _Call Me By Your Name_ days was gone. It had been gone for several years, and Armie missed the bit of softness on a body that had always been composed of sharp angles.

Armie rested his forehead against Tim’s stomach. His knife hit the floor with a metallic_ clank_ right before Armie started to cry. He clung to Tim’s sides and sobbed against his stomach.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has enjoyed this dark, DARK journey with our beautiful boys. 
> 
> This started out as two chapters ... but now, it's gonna be three!!!!
> 
> Drama and a conversation before the smut.  
And, yeah, the smut is dark, too.   
(hides face and runs away)

Armie had put his life in Tim’s hands. Ironic considering how many lives Armie had extinguished over the years all over the world. But not in Crema. Armie hadn’t killed anyone in Italy because Tim had been there. Tim brightened Armie’s dark corners.

Now, Armie’s life hung by a tenuous string, held in the delicate fingers of his best friend. The man he’d loved from day one. The man he’d hurt horribly.

Back in LA, with Tim heavily sedated—but alive—Armie had untied him and left a note. The note was simple:

_Tim,_

_I’ll be at my house in the Cayman’s. What happens next is up to you. Either come here alone or send the authorities. I won’t hurt you. It’s your choice._

_Love, Armie_

Perhaps the “love” was not deserved, not after all Armie had done: violently attacking his favorite person on Earth before almost killing him. No, Armie didn’t deserve to love Tim, and he certainly didn’t deserve Tim’s love.

Tim had said he loved him. Would he still love him when he woke alive and free in Armie’s condo, or had that just been a ploy for mercy? Armie had trouble believing that. Tim's eyes had been so sincere.

Tim's eyes had been haunting him since he left LA.

Armie sat on the back porch on the second story of his Cayman mansion, which he’d kept with no argument from Elizabeth in the divorce. From there, he could view the sea, a bright shade of blue where the sun didn’t reflect back like massive underwater diamonds.

Of course, Armie had a hidden box of trinkets there, too, but he hadn’t even looked at the lovely evidence of his kills. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t in the mood.

Frankly, he was waiting to hear a helicopter, maybe the heavy footsteps of a SWAT team. He would definitely be front-page news. Probably get the death penalty. Yes, he expected the authorities to arrive at any moment, so imagine Armie’s surprise when he heard the squeak of a single tennis shoe behind him instead.

Armie turned in his seat and looked through the wide open doors that let a soft breeze into his master bedroom, and there was Tim.

Tim with dark rings under his owlish eyes and a purple bruise blossoming on the side of his mouth. So Armie’s punch had done more than just split his lip.

Tim in a loose white t-shirt, hoodie, jeans, white sneakers, and a backwards baseball cap that—as usual—did nothing to hide his identity.

Tim with the same duffle bag he’d dragged into Armie’s Los Angeles condo before everything went to hell.

Armie knocked the chair over when he stood and approached, which made Tim take a few stumbling steps back. Armie froze and hated the way Tim held his hands out in front of him, waiting to fight back if he had to even though he wouldn’t win. The panicked movement revealed the bandages on his wrists, evidence of being cruelly handcuffed to Armie’s bed.

“Tim,” Armie whispered.

He licked his busted bottom lip. “Why didn’t you do it?”

Tim was asking why he was still alive when it would have been so easy for Armie to end it and get rid of his body. Frame the Lyft driver who’d brought Tim to his condo. Armie had framed people before—easily—because he was a monster who didn’t deserve the angel standing in front of him.

Armie sighed. “I couldn’t kill you.”

“Why?” Tim demanded.

“Because I love you.”

“Love me like a friend, or …?”

Armie closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, Tim, not like a friend.”

Tim took his hat off and squeezed it in his hands. “How long?”

“How long what?” Armie asked.

Tim got his meaning because Tim and Armie had always spoken their own language. “How long have you been killing people, and how long have you loved me not like a friend?”

Armie thought about it. “Fifteen years and … always.”

Tim’s legs went wobbly beneath him. He grabbed onto Armie’s bed for balance. When Armie moved to help, Tim dropped his hat and held his hand in front of him. “Don’t. Stay over there.” His voice had taken on the strained tone it assumed whenever Tim wanted to cry.

Armie stood in the center of his bedroom that smelled like sea salt and now, Tim’s hair product and sweat. Armie wondered if Tim had even showered after their altercation. He’d arrived so quickly in the Caymans, it was doubtful.

Tim sat on the back of the bed and gestured to his face. “How could you do this to me?”

“I panicked,” Armie said.

Tim chuckled coldly. “Yeah, me, too. I guess that’s what happens when you find out your—” A lump of emotion must have lodged in his throat, further proven by the tear that dove down his cheek. “And I was so close this time.”

Armie cautiously dragged a chair from the window closer to Tim, watching his friend for any sign of fear. When he found none, he put the chair in front of Tim and sat but not near enough to touch. “Close to what?”

Tim sniffed and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Close to telling you I didn’t want to be just friends anymore. Telling you I wanted to be something … _more_.” The muscles in his jaw clenched. “Instead, you were going to kill me.” A single laugh turned into a sob.

“Please let me touch you,” Armie begged from his seat that felt a million miles away.

Tim shook his head. “I can’t stop thinking about how it felt—your arm around my throat, crushing me into the ground. _You_.” He looked up, red-rimmed eyes fiery with accusation. “How could you do that to _me?”_ he shouted.

“It was never something I intended to do,” Armie said.

“Oh, so I’m not on your list of people to kill someday?”

“No.” Armie slid to his knees on the floor at Tim’s feet. “Believe me, I always wanted to keep you far away from that side of me.”

Tim’s chin trembled. “There were necklaces in that box. Have you given me dead people’s jewelry before?”

All the spit in Armie’s mouth vacated the area. He could barely speak, but he managed a simple, “Yes.”

“Did you get off on it?” Tim asked through clenched teeth.

“Yeah,” Armie replied honestly.

Tim stood suddenly. The punch was like a bolt of lightning. Armie never saw it coming. All he knew was his jaw ached, and he’d fallen backwards on the floor. Moments later, a familiar weight rested across his hips and fists rained down on his chest as Tim cussed and screamed until his face was red.

Armie grabbed hold of Tim’s flailing wrists but let go immediately when Tim hissed in pain, open wounds barely protected by Armie's harried bandaging. Then, Tim’s screams turned to sobs as he melted onto Armie’s chest and clung to the front of his shirt.

Armie held him while he cried. Tim’s entire body shook with the force of it, so Armie just tried to hold him still until the storm passed or at least lessened.

“You fucking bastard,” Tim muttered against Armie’s chest.

Armie desperately wanted to shove his face in Tim’s hair, kiss his forehead, but he had no right.

Tim sat up, hoodie sleeves almost swallowing his hands, and shoved curls out of his eyes. His face was red and swollen with grief—and that terrible bruise. Armie swore he could see the outline of his fist. Tim perched across Armie’s hips and stared through the open doors at the sea.

“If I was with you, would you stop?” he said, not looking at Armie.

“What?”

Tim closed his eyes before posing his next question. “If you can have me, will you stop?”

Armie had never thought about it before—not with Elizabeth and certainly not with random lovers. He’d never considered giving up his violent secret life.

Until now.

Armie carefully put his hands on Tim’s knees, careful to watch for any panic in the younger man’s face, but he found none. “Would you want that, Tim?”

He played with the strings on his hoodie, and God, Armie was transported back to those sunny days in Crema when Tim was nervous and nineteen. “I’ve thought about it before. I’ve never felt so happy and safe with someone. Which is kind of ironic now.”

“I’ll never hurt you again,” Armie said, slowly pushing his back up off the floor so he could sit with Tim in his lap.

“What about other people?” Tim asked.

“I’d stop for you.” And he meant it, too. What an insane concept, giving up murder for love.

Tim nibbled his top lip. “Promise?”

Armie nodded. 

“You said you love me more than a friend?”

“Desperately,” Armie said.

Tim stood and extended his hand to the man who’d almost killed him. “Show me.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINAL CHAPTER of this frankly horrific love story.
> 
> Warning: I'm bartending all day today, so if you want to yell at me, you'll have to wait for my rebuttal.
> 
> Hope this satisfies the itty bitty monster in all of you xoxo

They’d been naked together before, of course. On a movie set, as Elio and Oliver.

Not like this.

Not sprawled down the center of Armie’s bed in the Caymans with Tim beneath him, panting into his mouth as their bare skin rubbed together.

Armie had always loved their size difference, the way Tim—tall around other people—felt small in Armie’s presence. He’d toyed with the sensation in Crema, but now, Armie felt the full ramifications of Tim’s slight frame crushed beneath his. 

And not like earlier, not like when Armie had choked Tim out on his bedroom floor in LA. This was Tim, not afraid but hard and hot against Armie’s hip with one leg wrapped around the back of Armie’s thigh.

Tim whimpered, mouth open wide, and Armie just watched in awe because he got to have _this._ With Tim’s leg wrapped around Armie’s body, he had the perfect angle to reach a hand beneath them and press a fingertip against Tim’s hole.

Tim tensed immediately, and his hands pushed at Armie’s shoulders. “Wait.”

Armie prepared himself to be thrown off. It was all a cruel joke, and the police were outside. _Ha, silly man, you didn’t think a callous killer could be happy, did you?_

Instead, Tim’s already flushed cheeks turned pinker as he looked off, away, toward the ocean outside.

“Tim?”

He opened his mouth to speak but didn’t say anything. Despite the bruise, those full, pink lips were still lethal in their beauty.

“I can stop,” Armie said, already pushing his weight off Tim’s chest.

Tim’s fingers gripped his biceps. “No, I …” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’ve never done this before. With a guy.”

“Oh.” Armie didn’t know why he’d expected otherwise. Over the years, Tim had been linked romantically to several young female starlets. Ever since _Call Me By Your Name_, the tabloids had joked about Tim being gay or bisexual, at least, but Armie was his best friend, and Tim had never mentioned another man, not once.

“It’s only ever been you.” Tim’s eyes opened and studied Armie’s face for some kind of reaction. Apparently finding none, he stumbled on. “I just didn’t think you wanted me, you know, like this.”

Armie ran his open palm up the outside of Tim’s thigh, still wrapped around him. “I’ve always wanted you like this.”

“Will it hurt?” Tim bit the inside of his lip, but that didn’t prevent the wetness of his eyes.

Armie’s thumb caught a tear before it fell down the side of Tim’s face and into his hair. “Do you trust me?”

Tim chuckled. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“It’s a good hurt.”

Tim nodded, but the tears kept coming.

“We don’t have to do this,” Armie said. “You’ve been through so much today.”

“No.” Tim’s lips pressed into a tense line, and he latched onto Armie’s head. “You’ll give me this.”

Armie nodded and kissed the skin above the bandage on Tim’s left wrist.

They barely had to disengage for Armie to reach the lube in his bedside table. This time, when he pressed his fingertip against Tim’s hole, Tim didn’t stop him, but he did make a quiet noise of protest when Armie’s finger slipped inside. One of Tim’s eyes squeezed shut as he sucked his lips into his mouth and stared at the ceiling with the other.

“Hey,” Armie said. “Look at me.”

Hesitantly, Tim did. Maybe he expected Armie to say something comforting, but actions spoke louder than words.

Armie added a second finger, and Tim’s lower back arched off the bed as he gasped for breath through parted lips.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

When Armie found his prostate, Tim’s eyes slipped softly shut and his mouth dropped wide. The sound he made was reminiscent of the panicked choking from Armie’s condo, and it would be a flat out lie for Armie to say the reminder didn’t make him even harder.

Strange to know that Tim’s sex noises were so similar to those he made when fighting for his life. 

As Armie continued teasing Tim’s prostate, Tim’s head tilted back and revealed the length of his neck. Armie couldn’t help but lower his lips and suck before pulling back to ask, “How does that feel?”

“I don’t know. Too much and not enough.” 

Armie pressed in deeper, and Tim’s head lifted, forehead pressed against Armie’s as he clutched to Armie’s shoulders. Consciously or not, Tim’s hips pressed up and down, meeting the thrust of Armie’s fingers.

Armie didn’t bother with a third finger. He couldn’t wait anymore. He was so ravenous, he worried he might chew off a piece of Tim’s flesh if he didn’t fuck him immediately.

He pulled his fingers out and reached for the condoms, but Tim latched onto his hair and tugged. “No.” He stared up at Armie, resolute.

They needed no words. Theirs was a silent agreement, an understanding. There was nothing safe about their relationship anymore.

His cock covered in lube, Armie lifted Tim’s knees over his shoulders and pressed into Tim in one rapid motion that made Tim shout. Armie glimpsed the shocked expression on Tim’s face for but a moment before Armie’s own brain registered the intense, overwhelming sensation of finally—finally—being inside the man he’d loved for so long.

How could he ever have killed Tim without having this? He must have been mad to consider it … but mad he was. Armie was a murderer. He opened his eyes to find Tim pinned below him, long appendages folded around Armie, urging him closer, closer. The way his body crushed Tim’s; it would have been easy to take hold of that lovely throat and just _squeeze._

Instead, Armie pulled back and thrust roughly. Tim whimpered. A tear ran down his cheek, but his fingertips dug into the back of Armie’s head. Eyes shut, Tim ordered, “Harder.”

Armie pulled back and thrust again. Again. Slow, deep attacks on Tim’s body. Tim groaned with every intrusion, closed eyes not stopping the tears from pouring out.

Armie paused long enough to unlock Tim’s hands from his head. He twisted their fingers together and pinned Tim’s arms above him on the bed—a weak mimicry of Armie’s panicked Los Angeles cruelty. The white bandages on Tim’s wrists only encouraged Armie’s rough fucking. This wasn’t making love; it was forging a promise. 

He dove down and shoved his tongue into Tim’s open mouth, and Tim sucked on it. Then, they were kissing, but it was more than kissing. It was a brutal battle of lips, teeth, and tongues until Armie tasted blood. He leaned back to find Tim’s busted lip bleeding again, his chin painted red. Without thought, Armie licked Tim’s blood from his face. He savored the copper taste in his mouth before looking down at Tim, body lurching up the bed with every thrust, but eyes wide with fascination.

Armie probably had Tim’s blood all over him, but Tim didn’t recoil. Instead, he lifted his chin and opened his mouth until Armie got the hint and kissed him. Armie did not expect Tim’s teeth to dig into his bottom lip and bite, keep biting, until Armie gasped in pain and felt the subtle pop of his skin breaking.

He backed away and pushed Tim down onto the bed with his hand on the front of Tim’s throat, but Tim didn’t panic. No, he stared up at Armie with Armie’s blood painting his lips red.

The world froze around them. Even Armie’s hips stopped their vicious pace.

This was it: a blood pact between them. A promise to take each other’s secrets to the grave. Not a mere agreement but an unbreakable bond.

Tim slowly licked Armie’s blood from his lips, but no, Armie wanted their blood mixed together. Before the red was entirely removed, Armie captured Tim’s mouth and kissed and kissed as they fucked.

The scents of iron and sex and sweat washed the sunny seaside room in darkness, but it was _their _darkness. 

Armie leaned up on his elbows and admired the splotches of bright red that now decorated Tim’s mouth and the bruise on his cheek. Tim didn’t look back. His eyes were shut, mouth wide open. He was gone on pleasure and pain, so when Armie took hold of Tim’s dick, it was no surprise when he came in three strokes. A sound like a sob filled the room, and Armie would know, wouldn’t he?

Armie bit into Tim’s shoulder when he came, silent but for the sound of his own pulse drumming in his ears. He had died and been reborn in the crushing embrace of the youth who’d grown into a man before Armie’s eyes. The Oscar-winning fashion icon who now knew the worst of Armie and loved him anyway.

With Tim barely coherent, Armie cleaned them both up—of semen and blood. The sun slowly set outside as Armie spooned Tim’s naked body from behind. He wrapped an arm snugly around Tim’s chest and the other around his stomach and nibbled at the side of his neck.

Before Tim could fall asleep, reality descended on Armie like a shroud. “What if they accuse me someday? Find old evidence,” he said. “They’d make you an accomplice.”

“Did Elizabeth know?” Tim’s voice slurred.

“Of course not,” Armie replied.

“Then, why would I?” Tim nuzzled back against him, his long hair a mess that tickled Armie’s face. “I’ll never tell anyone,” he whispered. “Just stay with me.”

Armie hugged him tighter. “Always.”

Tim’s body relaxed as he began sinking into sleep, so Armie squeezed him more—tighter, tighter. Again, he was but a tiny bird in Armie’s embrace. It would be so easy to cut off his air, cut open his skin.

_So easy._

Tim, half awake, choked. “Armie?”

Armie loosened his grip and smiled against the side of Tim’s throat. “Shh, I’ve got you.”

He always had liked holding a life in his hands, and now, Tim’s life was his.

Forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Come play with me on [Tumblr](http://saradobiebauer.tumblr.com/)! I'm ridiculously in love with Timmy over there.


End file.
